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Sermon – 2 Kings 2.1-12, Mark 9.2-9, LE, YB, February 15, 2015

16 Monday Feb 2015

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One of the often told stories I heard at a parish where I once served was the birth story of a set of twins.  The parish was celebrating its annual fundraising gala – a party that welcomes hundreds of people and raises nearly $100,000.  The event is one of the major social scenes of the Christmas season.  People don their furs, sparkling dresses, and tuxedos, wait staff float around with hors d’oeuvres and drinks, jovial bidding wars happen in the silent auction, and laugher and music fill the halls.  On this particular night, when the entire parish was wrapped up in merry making, one parishioner was being whisked away to the emergency room.  She was pregnant with triplets and the babies were coming early.  Something was wrong and the word began to slowly spread through the bubbling parish hall.  Shocked into sobriety, many of the parishioner’s friends left the party and went up to the quiet chapel upstairs.  They began a prayer vigil for the mother and the babies.  That night was a night of contrasts:  parishioners and guests oblivious to the crisis; parishioners who were worried, but agreed to keep the event going; and parishioners who could no longer be present in the face of crisis and who were brought to their knees as this mother and the doctors battled to save as many of the babies as they could.  Eight years later when I met the twins, that story was told time and again as if the event had happened yesterday.

That night was what I would call one of those thin moments.  Thin moments are those moments that are so spiritual, so sacred that you can actually feel God.  One person explains that the feeling of thin moments is “undeniably life-affirming, breath-stopping, mind-tingling, goose bump-motivating, heart-melting, soul-quenching, and wonderful.  And by wonderful I mean truly full of the wonder, the awe, the mystery, the otherness of God.  Celts talk about two worlds that exist in one place – thin places.  This world, the here, and the other world, the more, the one that’s just on the other side we mostly can’t see now because now see through a mirror dimly.  Celts believe a veil exists between the two worlds.  The veil is like a thick wool army blanket.  But every once in a while the blanket gets worn down so you can see through it, like gossamer.  Those are thin moments.  Grace moments.  When for just a second you glimpse something that’s greater than the present moment, something that connects you to everyone else.”[i]  Of course, not everyone reacts to those thin moments in the same way.  I think that is why that some people were drawn to the chapel on that awful, wonderful night while others needed to busy themselves at the party.  When life, death, God, and wonder are all mixed in a moment, we all respond differently.

Today in our scripture lessons we have two such thin moments:  Elijah being taken up in a whirlwind to God and Jesus being transfigured before the disciples.  What I love about these stories are the widely different responses to the thin moments.  In the Elijah story, we have all sorts of activity.  Elisha, knowing that Elijah’s death is coming soon refuses to leave Elijah’s side.  Three times, Elisha tells Elijah, “As the LORD lives, and as you yourself live, I will not leave you.”  Elisha’s way of coping with that thin space between life, death, God, and wonder was to cling to Elijah for as long as he could.  Meanwhile, there were a bunch of prophets around Elisha who wanted nothing better than to gossip about the pending death.  Two different groups of prophets come to Elisha and say, “You know the LORD is taking your master away from you today.”  You can almost hear the catty pleasure they take in knowing this information.  In the face of a thin place, these prophets want to gossip and flaunt their knowledge.  Elisha’s response to them is to insist on silence.  As the prophets try to engage him, he cuts off their pandering by responding, “Yes, I know; keep silent.”  Elisha prefers to quietly be present in the presence of the thin space.  Other prophets seem to agree.  The third group of prophets does not taunt Elisha.  They too know death is coming, and they stand at a distance as Elisha and Elijah cross the Jordan.  They keep watch, holding the pair in awe and in prayer.

Meanwhile, in Jesus’ story, we see additional reactions.  In the face of Jesus’ transfiguration, Peter, James, and John have different reactions.  James and John seem to be content with silent terror.  They have no idea what to say and so they say nothing.  Meanwhile, Peter also has no idea what to say, but words bubble out of his mouth anyway.  He starts fussing around in the thin space, busily wondering if he should make dwellings for Jesus, Elijah, and Moses.  You can sense the nervous energy in his response, as silence is too discomforting for Peter in the thin space.  That is the funny thing about thin spaces – some people run around nervously, while others gather around and gossip for comfort; some demand silence and proximity, while others stand at a quiet distance; some are terrified, while others eager to stay connected.[ii]

I have seen the same reaction in people when they travel on mission trips.  Mission trips, especially in foreign countries really take people out of their comfort zones.  Not only are you struggling through the basics like sleeping on floors, boiling water for fear of sickness, using facilities that are not exactly modern, you are also sometimes struggling with language barriers, hard labor, extreme poverty.  Add on to all of that the sacred, thin moments that come when people meet one another and God in the ways that one only can in a rural Honduran or Dominican village and you have a recipe for all kinds of reactions.  I have seen stoic men break down in tears.  I have seen nervous women babble on for hours.  I have seen normally talkative teens retreat in quiet discomfort.  And I myself have had all of those reactions and many more.

What is key in all of these reactions to the sacred is that none of them are inherently wrong.  There is nothing inherently wrong with the groups of prophets who want to gossip with Elisha about Elijah’s pending death.  There is nothing inherently wrong about getting tongue-tied, excited, or totally silent.  We all react differently to those thin spaces because those thin spaces are the times when we come closest to the God who is beyond comprehension, beyond the earthly, beyond us.  Our reactions have nothing to do with whether we are a good Christian or a bad Christian.  Our reactions have more to do with the fact that we are humans, and God, especially God in those close, intimate, thin moments, is utterly non-human.

Although there is nothing wrong with our varied human reactions to the sacred, the important message for us today is that we pay attention to the thin moments and our reactions.  I have often wondered what would have happened if Elisha had not been paying attention that day when Elijah told him he was heading to Bethel.  Elisha would have missed a life-defining moment if he had busily said, “Okay, catch you later Elijah!”  If those prophets had known something was happening to Elijah but had decided to focus on other work that day instead of keeping watch on the other side of the Jordan, imagine all that they would have missed.  Or if Peter, James, or John had turned down Jesus’ offer to go up the mountain or even earlier had declined Jesus’ offer to follow him, they would have never had this terrifying, babble-making, yet wonderful moment with Jesus.

That is our invitation today: to pay attention.  Pay attention to the thin spaces that are given to you in life.  They do not just happen on mountaintops or near the River Jordan.  They happen all the time in simple, everyday moments.  God is constantly breaking in to this world, and revealing God’s self to us through those around us.  We may not respond in the perceived “right” way, but that is the joy of our lessons today.  The only “wrong” way to respond is to not pay attention at all and to miss the chance to respond, however messily.  The prophets and disciples assure us that we will be in good company in whatever our responses are – our only job is to make sure we pay attention enough to have a response.  God is waiting in thin moments for each of us.  Amen.

[i] Cathleen Falsani, as quoted at http://esteevalendy.blogspot.com/2010/04/thin-moments.html found on February 13, 2015.

[ii] Wm. Loyd Allen, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 438.

Sermon – John 1.43-51, E2, YB, January 18, 2015

21 Wednesday Jan 2015

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I have lots of friends who swear that Wicked is their favorite musical.  They know all the songs, they have seen the show multiple times, and they reference lines from the characters.  The cult around the musical feels just like that – a cult.  When I confessed that I had not ever seen the show, my friends were aghast.  “You HAVE to see the show!” they would exclaim.  To be honest, they were so passionate about Wicked that I had almost decided that there was no way the show could be that good – surely I would be underwhelmed.  But finally, after much cajoling, I went to see the show with some friends.  And all of a sudden, I got it:  the witty humor, the creative back story, the emotional narrative, and the moving music.  I could not stop thinking and talking about the show for weeks.

Though we have all had encounters with people who are passionate about something – the latest show, a newly released movie, or a favorite restaurant – I imagine that few of us are as passionate about church.  We just do not have the same fervor about church as we do about other passions in our life.  Somehow, being publicly passionate about those other things seems more socially acceptable than being publicly passionate about church.  Our initial concerns are usually about social stigma.  We do not want to become that person that people avoid because we are always babbling on about church.  Our fear may also be about what to say.  How do we explain to others what draws us to this place and makes us spend a good portion of our time here?  Or maybe we have lost some of our passion about church.  Perhaps we come to church out of habit or some longing, but we are not so jazzed about church that we are rushing around, telling friends and strangers alike, “You have to come and see my church.  It is awesome!”

Though we may not be running around like excited new Christians, the disciples of Jesus did in the early days.  In our gospel lesson today, we are told that when Philip meets Jesus and begins following him, he finds Nathanael and says, “We have found him about whom Moses in the law and also the prophets wrote, Jesus son of Joseph from Nazareth.”  And when Nathanael scoffs, “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” Philip is undeterred.  Philip excitedly insists, “Come and see.”  You can almost imagine Philip’s big grin and irresistible enthusiasm.  “Come and see,” he says.  This is his simple invitation.  Come and see.  The words are warm and inviting.  The words are gentle and hospitable.  The words, “Come and see,” are not some forceful demand or even a judgmental threat.[i]  There is no, “or else,” at the end of Philip’s invitation.  His invitation is light and easy:  Come and see.

That is our greatest fear when we talk about evangelism.  Because we have such a meaningful relationship with God and the church, we do not want to be associated with Christians who judge and condemn.  We would never be that Christian on a street corner telling people that they are going to hell unless they repent.  In fact, those are the very people who sometimes make us paranoid to even admit our faith in public.  Or maybe we have friends or family who were hurt by the church, and although we still feel drawn to the church, we want to respect their pain.  I have lost count of the number of my own friends and family who have had those negative experiences:  divorcees who felt judged or downright excluded when they wished to be remarried, women who wanted to be priests but felt that sense of call when the church did not affirm the ordination of women, or lesbian and gay friends who just did not feel welcome or treated as equals in the church.  The list is extensive and even if our church experience is not like that, we fear being associated with “those Christians.”

The challenge for us is that we get so caught up in the “what ifs” of sharing our faith that we forget the really wonderful things about our faith.  Philip reminds us today of the simple joy of our faith and our relationship with Christ.  Take a moment to think about your favorite thing about the life we share in this faith community.[ii]  I do not want you to worry about some elaborate theological explanation of your faith.  I just want you to think about your favorite thing about your experience here at St. Margaret’s.  Maybe your favorite thing is the community, and the warm welcome and inclusion you have felt here.  Maybe your favorite thing is the way that the worship experience connects you to God or opens up new truth for you.  Maybe your favorite thing is the way church is like an oasis, a place where you can breathe in the midst of the chaos of life, and find some sense of peace.  Or maybe your favorite thing is something else altogether.  But think about that favorite thing that keeps you coming back here week after week.

Now, imagine sharing that favorite thing with someone else, and inviting them to come and see for themselves.  Before you panic, I want to reassure you.  I am not asking you to go to someone and persuade them to become a Christian.  I am not even asking you to “prove” the truth of the Christian faith.[iii]  I am simply inviting you to invite someone you know to come and see that aspect of our congregational life that you enjoy.  When we have talked about evangelism before, many of you have told me about how you do not really have any friends you can invite to church.  Actually our excuses are numerous (and yes, I say “our” because I have the same excuses too).  We may worry that our friends live too far away, or maybe they already have a church community, or maybe you just do not like to mix your friends community with your church community.  Many of you have turned to me and either said, “Well, isn’t it the priest’s job to grow the church,” or “That is what our website is for.”  And the answer to those things is yes.  Yes, the rector plays some role in people’s attraction to a church and certainly many seekers find us through our website.  But the number one way that people come to a church is by personal invitation.  Every study I have read says that the number one way to attract people to your parish is through personal invitation.

The good news is that the personal invitation is not as scary as the invitation sounds.  Just look at Philip.  When Nathanael scoffs and says, “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” Philip could have had any number of responses.  As one person argues, “Philip could have given Nathanael some of his own opinions.  He could have said, ‘This Jesus knows a lot about the Bible.’  Or he might have said, ‘There is something about this man Jesus that draws me to him.’  Even when Nathanael expressed skepticism about ‘anything good coming out of Nazareth,’ Philip might have listed some successful people from Nazareth.”[iv]  But Philip does none of that.  His offer is warm, simple, and gracious.  Come and see.

The beauty of our gospel lesson is that Philip’s testimony to Nathaniel is not that impressive.  His testimony would not win any academic awards or even impress most people.  But his invitation does get Nathanael to in fact, come and see.[v]  And that is what our gospel is inviting us to do today too.  Not to come up with some master plan or some convincing argument.  But to think about the one thing that draws you to this place, and then simply share that one thing with someone else.  Your closing argument will then be easy.  Come and see.  I cannot imagine a better gift that you can give to those you know than to let them see the one thing that gives you life, gives you joy, and gives you passion; and then to invite them to come and see.  Amen.

[i] David Lose, “Epiphany 2B:  Come and See,” January 12, 2015 found at http://www.davidlose.net/2015/01/epiphany-2-b/.

[ii] Lose.

[iii] Michael Rogness, “Commentary on John 1.43-51,” as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=2314 on January 14, 2015.

[iv] Rogness.

[v] Ted A. Smith, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 263.

Sermon – John 1.1-18, C1, YB, December 28, 2014

15 Thursday Jan 2015

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If you have ever spent much time with a young child, you know that one of their favorite questions is, “Why?”  You can have a ten minute conversation in which every statement you complete is answered with a, “Why?”  Now this could mean that you, as an adult, are stimulated to really ponder the meaning behind the things we say or do.  And in fact, many children, after hearing several answers to their questions, will simply answer, “Oh,” or “Okay.”  But more often, this kind of conversation often results in frustrated exasperation where you either conceded, “I don’t know,” or you resort to your conversation ender, “because I said so.”

When I hear John’s gospel today, I like to imagine a curious child has heard Luke’s gospel of Mary, Joseph, shepherds, and angels, and has simply asked, “Why?”  Why did Jesus have to be born?  Why was Jesus born in a manger?  Why did angels go visit those shepherds?  Why didn’t Mary seem to understand any of this?  To all of those questions, John’s gospel answers, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God…the Word became flesh and lived among us.”  Now if we understood that circular explanation, we still might ask, “Why?  Why did the Word become flesh and live among us?”  John’s answer continue:  “He was in the world, and the world came into being through him; yet the world did not know him.  He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him.  But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God, who were born, not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God.”  Now most of us might be too confused to ask “Why?” at this point. We might, like a child, simply answer, “Oh.”  And those of us who are bold enough might even profess our confusion.  To this, John’s answer would likely be a simple repetition, “So that we might become children of God, who were born, not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God.”

This is John’s answer to the “Why?” of Luke’s Christmas story.  Why did God take on human flesh in the persons of Mary and Joseph, and have that birth witnessed by angels and shepherds?  God took on human flesh because, as one scholar explains, “God has called us God’s own children, individuals who hold infinite worth in God’s eyes, deserve love and respect, and will be used by God to care for God’s beloved world.”[i]  I do not know about you, but that is the kind of answer that should make most of our whys end with an “Oh!”  God came to the earth in the person of Jesus, took on human flesh so that we could become God’s children, because we hold infinite worth in God’s eyes, deserve love and respect, and will be used by God to care for God’s beloved world.  That is some of the best, most affirming news I have heard in quite some time.

The trick though, is not to let our “Oh!” be the end of the story.  If you can truly hear God’s words for you today – that we continue to celebrate Christmas because Christmas has a profound affect on our lives – then we have more work to do.  Now I do not know if you have already selected your New Year’s Resolution yet, but if not, perhaps you can take on a new resolution this year.  In light of John’s gospel, I invite you to consider taking on a daily mantra for the next month.  Maybe you say the words as the introduction to your prayer time.  Maybe you say them in the mirror after you get out of the shower.  Or maybe you say them in the car on the way to work, school, or on your daily errands.  The mantra goes like this:  I am God’s child, deserving of love and respect, and God will use me to change the world.[ii]  Let’s try the words together now, repeating after me:  I am God’s child, deserving of love and respect, and God will use me to change the world.  One more time so that you have the words in your mind:  I am God’s child, deserving of love and respect, and God will use me to change the world.  I invite you to try the words once a day, everyday, for at least one month.  Then perhaps at the end of January, you can look back at Christmas, and your response will no longer by, “Why?” or “Oh!” but instead can be, “Okay!”  Amen.

[i] David Lose, “An Unsentimental Christmas Sermon,” December 30, 2013, found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post=2980 on December 26, 2014.

[ii] Lose.

Sermon – Mark 1.4-11, E1, YB, January 11, 2015

15 Thursday Jan 2015

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I have always had an affinity for water.  I am not sure why, but something about water connects to something deep in my soul.  Whether listening to water bubble over rocks in a river, hearing the roar of a waterfall, listening to a lake lap on the shore, or hearing the crashing of waves on the beach, something about the sound of water quiets my mind and connects with some deeper part of me.  Some of my most intimate conversations with God have taken place near water – times when I was facing a big transition, times when I was worried about a major life event, or times when I had run out of things to say and just needed a place to just listen.  Whether a quiet drip or trickle or a roaring rush, somehow the noise of water connects me to the mysterious and transcendent voice of God.

To be honest, I have always thought my connection to the water was a little strange.  But this week, as I studied our lessons, my connection suddenly made sense.  Water has always been a part of our faith narrative.  When we celebrate a baptism, we always retell the biblical story of water.  One denomination retells the biblical story this way, “Eternal Father, when nothing existed but chaos, you swept across the dark waters and brought forth light.  In the days of Noah you saved those on the ark through water.  After the flood, you set in the clouds a rainbow.  When you saw your people as slaves in Egypt you led them to freedom through the sea.  Their children you brought through the Jordan to the land which you promised.  In the fullness of time you sent Jesus, nurtured in the water of a womb.”[i]  Of course we know there are countless other water stories in scripture: Jonah who is thrown into the sea and swallowed by a great fish, Jesus who calms the seas and walks on water, women encountering God as they draw water in wells, and eunuchs running to rivers to be baptized.  Water is everywhere in our biblical narrative, and is where many people see, hear, taste, and feel God in their lives.

Today, we hear one of those ultimate stories of water – in fact, today is a feast day in the Episcopal Church:  Jesus’ baptism in the waters of the river Jordan.  When Jesus comes to be baptized, baptism in the river Jordan has already been transformative for many.  People from all over the Judean countryside have been coming to John to confess their sins, repent, and be baptized into forgiveness.  As if those experiences of conversion were not enough, something even more extraordinary happens in that water.  Jesus comes from Nazareth to be baptized by John, and when he comes up out of the water, the heavens are torn apart and the Spirit descends upon him like a dove.  Then a voice comes from heaven, saying, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”  Just like all those other stories of water in the biblical story, something sacred and transformative happens in water – something so powerful that the heavens are torn apart, the Spirit descends, and the Lord proclaims favor, love, and affection.

Many of us do not remember our own baptism in water.  Though adults and young people are certainly welcome to be baptized later in life, most of us are baptized as infants.  Unless our parents or godparents told us the story of our baptism, we have no idea if we cried or cooed that day.  We have no idea what emotions or thoughts the priest or our sponsors had that day.  We have no idea whether we were inherently changed by the water that was poured over our heads.  For most of us, the holy experience of water at our own baptism is a lost memory.  But the Church does not let us forget the power of baptismal waters.  Every year we celebrate the feast of Jesus’ baptism.  Every year, we reaffirm our baptismal covenant – often multiple times per year.  And depending on the membership of the church, every year we baptize new members into the life of the church.  So even if we do not remember our own baptism, the repetition of the story of baptism, and the experience of reaffirming our vows, creates new memories for us.  That formation is so powerful that many of us will dip our fingers in Holy Water, looking for a blessing and a reminder of another water that was once poured over our heads.

But today is not a day just to celebrate sacred experiences with water.  Today is not just a day when we think back to our own encounters at the font and how holy they were.  Today is not just a day we think back to those biblical stories of water in our faith and marvel at the miracles that have happened through water.  Today is not just a day that we remember those moments by a river, lake, or beach where God seemed to be whispering comfort, truth, or blessing to us.  The danger with the text we hear from Mark today is that we could be tempted to do just that.  Our lesson ends with those words from the voice of heaven that says, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”  We could sit here today and savor those words for Jesus.  In fact, I could tell you today that those words are words for you – that you are God’s beloved and with you God is well pleased.  I could do those things because they are true.  You are God’s beloved and God is well pleased with you.  The baptismal waters should always remind you of that – and others waters, like rivers, waterfalls, and oceans, may do the same.

But today we do not simply celebrate the gift of blessing, beloved-ness, and bounty.  Today is the day when we celebrate the “so what?” of Jesus’ baptism.  As one scholar explains, “Jesus did not receive the Spirit in order to enjoy privately its spiritual benefits, but rather in order to pass it on.”[ii]  In Mark’s gospel, in the immediate next verse, Jesus is driven out into the wilderness to be tempted.  His baptism opens a road that will lead to the cross.  For Jesus, his entire ministry is informed by this moment – this tremendous in-breaking of the Spirit and a declaration of Jesus as being the beloved of God.  But Jesus does not tarry in this moment.  Jesus keeps on moving, holding fast to the moment, but using the moment to change his future.

That is our invitation today too:  to think about the “so what?” of our own baptisms.  When I think about all of those sacred moments I have had near water, a distinct part of that memory is what walking away from those moments felt like.  Sometimes I walked away from that bubbling brook with a sense of peace that God would be with me in the trials that were ahead.  Sometimes I turned from that lapping lake with a sense of empowerment and energy about what new thing God was calling me to do.  And sometimes I walked away from that roaring ocean having no idea what was to come, but knowing that God would help me face whatever came.

Our invitation today is to consider the “so what?” of our own sacred watery moments.  You can come to Jesus’ story today like you would come to a body of water for renewal and refreshment.  You can soak in the blessing and affirmation that come to Jesus and to you.  But you will also need to walk out of those doors today.  In fact, our liturgy does not let you leave this place without a dismissal that sends you out in the world to do the work that God has given you to do.  The question this week is what that work is.  What is God renewing you for?  What is God empowering you to do?  The answers will be different for each of us.  But the answer is there, if you are willing to listen to the sacred sound of water.  Amen.

[i] Barbara Sholis, “A watery solution,” Christian Century, vol. 119, no. 26, December 18-31, 2002, 19.

[ii] Lee Barrett, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 240.

Sermon – Matthew 2.1-12, Epiphany (transferred), YB, January 4, 2015

15 Thursday Jan 2015

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At St. Margaret’s, one of the things we talk about a lot is being a seeker.  In fact, our motto is that we are a community of faith seeking, serving, and sharing Christ in Plainview.  Though we talk about being seekers or being a people who are seeking Christ, sometimes I am not sure we are all on board about what that actually means.  That is why I love this story of the magi today in our gospel lesson.  Though we may not feel like we have much in common with wise men from the East who have expensive gifts, the gift of the wise men for us today is that they show us what the experience of being a seeker is really like.

First, the magi show us that being a seeker means being observant.[i]  The text from Matthew today says that the wise men observe the king’s star at its rising.  Now, in order to observe a star, one must be paying attention.  One must be on the lookout for the movement of God in order to have an encounter with God.

We have a group within our parish who has taken to looking at the stars too.  Our Praying with the Stars offering is a way for us to connect with God through the observation of the stars.  That offering is one more way that St. Margaret’s helps us seek Christ in creation.  But the truth is that Praying with the Stars is about more than astrology.  Praying with the Stars is about creating space to observe the movement of the Holy Spirit.  If stars are not your thing, that is fine.  Perhaps movies or books or music is more your thing.  The point is that one can never really be a seeker unless one is attuned to the movement of God – or at least creates opportunities to open oneself to the movement of God.  The magi offer us that gentle push to create space in our own spiritual lives for observing, watching, and listening for the movement of the Spirit.

Next, the magi show us that being a seeker means that our journey will be eventful.  In this story alone, the wise men have two very different encounters.  First, they encounter those who are resistant to their journey.  King Herod on the surface seems quite inquisitive and eager to hear about the magi’s journey.  But we learn from the text that Herod acts more out of fear for his own power and control.  What was good news to the wise men was not seen as good news by all.  Second, the wise men experience being overwhelmed by joy.  When they encounter the Christ Child, the wise me are so overwhelmed that they are brought to their knees, pay homage, and pour out abundant gifts.  Experiencing Christ is so overwhelming that these men find themselves doing things they may not have expected.

Many of us know exactly what this experience is like.  We get roped into volunteering for a workday at Habitat for Humanity, and in the middle of the workday, as we are hanging drywall with a prospective homeowner, the homeowner says something that stops us in our tracks.  We are so overwhelmed by the encounter that all we can do is marvel at God working in our midst.  Or we are sitting in worship for the millionth time, hearing the same Eucharistic prayer again, when a word or a phrase catches us up short.  Suddenly, what we are doing at the Eucharistic table takes on a fresh, jarring perspective.  Or maybe we are having a simple conversation with a fellow parishioner about the way that their sacrificial giving has changed their walk with Christ.  The next time we write our pledge check, something is changed in us forever – even the sensation of the pen on the paper of our check feels different.

Finally, the magi show us that being a seeker means that our lives will be changed.  When the wise men are done with their visit with the holy family, they do not simply return home the same way that they came.  They do not even return to Herod as Herod had asked them to return.  No, in the midst of their visit, the wise men have a dream that warns them to go another way.  And so, they return home, but by a way that is not familiar.  The magi teach us that when you meet Christ, “Nothing is ever the same.  You don’t take the old road any longer.  You unfold a new map, and discover an alternate path.”[ii]

For those of us who have assumed the life of the seeker, we know this truth all too well.  If we commit our lives to truly seeking God, not idly going through the motions, we experience things that are just too transformative to leave us the same.  We can no longer be the old selves that we once were.  My friends who are vegetarians all have a story.  Whether they read The Jungle in high school, or they saw Fast Food Nation after college, some experience led them to disavow the eating of meat.  Whatever they learned or experienced, they could not unlearn.  And so they were transformed and their eating life was transformed.  The same is true for us.  When we seek and experience Christ – whether in our experiences with the poor, in our experiences with fellow parishioners, or even as we taste Christ in the holy meal – we too are transformed into something that cannot be undone.

That is the gift of the magi for us today.  They show us how to be seekers:  seekers who are observant, seekers who expect eventfulness, and seekers who realize they will be forever changed.  As the drama of their journey unfolds, they invite us to allow our own spiritual journey of seeking to unfold.  The promise is that the Holy Spirit will transform us, over and over again.  We only need to take the first step.  Amen.

[i] Steve Pankey, “Are You Paying Attention?” December 29, 2014 at https://draughtingtheology.wordpress.com/2014/12/29/are-you-paying-attention/.

[ii] James C. Howell, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 216.

Sermon – Luke 2.1-20, YB, CE, December 24, 2014

14 Wednesday Jan 2015

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Most of us have a favorite Christmas movie.  Whether we like “It’s a Wonderful Life,” “A Charlie Brown Christmas,” or “A Christmas Story,” many of us find that until we have watched that special movie, we do not feel like Christmas has really arrived.  My personal favorite is “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” – the animated one, not the newer one with Jim Carrey.  I love the cute little dog that the Grinch dresses up like a reindeer, I love the little girl who sweetly encounters the Grinch dressed as Santa, and I love the songs throughout the movie.  But my favorite part is when the Grinch hears the Whos singing on Christmas morning despite their supposedly ruined Christmases and how the Grinch’s heart is warmed and grows in size.  Part of what I love about the movie is the movie’s wonderful lesson about the true meaning of Christmas – that material goods and abundance do not make Christmas:  only love and community make Christmas.  But I think the real reason I love this movie is its familiarity.  I like that I can watch the movie every Christmas and the movie never changes.  I like that no matter what house I lived in growing up, or where I found myself as an adult, or even how happy or sad I was on a given Christmas, the familiarity of the movie made me feel like I had something to ground me.  When all else in my world was changing, the movie never changes.

I think that is why we find ourselves at Church on a Christmas Eve too.  Every year we find ourselves sitting in a pew hearing the same story of Mary, Joseph, shepherds, angels, and the baby Jesus.  The story is so familiar that we could probably recite the story if pressed.  Whether we are a child or an adult, at home or far away, with loved ones or alone, the story never changes.  That changelessness, that familiarity is something we eagerly anticipate every Christmas and in large part is why we come to Church this night.

Familiarity is something we all long for at Christmas.  When we have lived long enough, we come to know that despite the fact that we celebrate Christmas every year and we try to keep familiar traditions, our celebration is never the same.  Invariably someone has passed away and their absence changes our experience; a family member is not present because of a falling out in the past year; the grandchildren become too old to play silly games or make crafts and the mood is different; or any other number of things have changed – divorce, births, illness, job loss, or moves.  Even if you still gather with your family or a set of friends, change is inevitable at Christmas.  And because we all know how unsettling change can be, we long for something that is unchanging that we can cling to and with which we can ground ourselves.

This Advent we have talked a lot about how much turbulence and change has been happening in our world.  We have watched as the world has erupted in violence.  The atrocities, suffering, and fighting have been so vivid that many of us have stepped away from watching the news.  We have seen unrest in our own country, as issues of race, class, and gender have collided.  And in case any of us were tempted to believe that those issues of race, class, and gender are someone else’s issues, we have only to look at as far as Staten Island to know that we are not yet in a place of peace and justice.  The noise of unrest is so loud that there are times when instead of listening to the news we turn to music, sports, or any other escape we can think of to run from the reality of our world.

The funny thing is that though we turn to our gospel lesson for comfort and familiarity, the same noise that we find in our lives and in our world is present in our reading tonight too.  The very reason that Mary, Joseph, and Jesus end up in a stable is that the Roman Empire has been greedily looking for more ways to bring in money into the empire.  And so peoples are being displaced, making their way back to their hometowns so that the empire can determine whether they have collected enough money from the people.  The Pax Romana is bearing down upon the people, and this nobody couple from Bethlehem is just one more victim of the injustice of the system.[i]

Perhaps that background noise is part of why we love this story so much.  Despite the chaos of that night and of that time, good news comes – to shepherds, to angels, to Mary and Joseph.  We savor the familiar words of goodness that override the story:  “do not be afraid”; “good news of great joy”; “peace among those whom he favors.”  To displaced Mary and Joseph, to disenfranchised shepherds, and to distant little Bethlehem peace, joy, comfort, and hope explode on this very night.  We have learned from hearing Scripture Sunday after Sunday that Scripture can often be hard, challenging, and downright condemning.  We spend much time throughout the Church year struggling with where God is challenging us to live differently and beckoning us to live more Christ-like lives.  But not on this night.  On this night, we get assurance, comfort, and joy.  We get an innocent baby – in fact a baby that will change the world for good.  Like young parents ourselves, we can worry about money, health, and safety later – because on this night of Jesus’ birth, we just want to cling to the Christ Child and all that the child represents.

Now there are times in our lives when clinging to the familiar just for the sake of comfort is a bad thing.  Maybe you yourself have been criticized for living in the past, romanticizing what once was, especially at this time of year.  But this is one of those rare instances when the Church says that we have permission to live in the past and cling to the familiar.  That is because this familiar – this story of Jesus’ birth – is worthy of that kind of devotion.  We are not staking our claim on something superficially good when we come to Church this night – we are not clinging to a romanticized past that can never fulfill us.  We are clinging to an event that happened a long time ago, but whose significance changed things forever.  In this incarnate experience of God, the game changed for all time.  God became flesh and dwelled among us, and we are changed for the better.

So tonight, I invite you accept the gift of familiarity and comfort.  Let this night warm your heart and soul and cling to the familiar story and all that the story means for us.  Hold fast to that comfort, and return to these words whenever you need them.  We have 364 other days to worry about what is going on in the world.  In fact what happens here in Scripture tonight deeply impacts how we will respond to that world the rest of the year.  But that is for another day.  Tonight, take the gift of comfort, joy, and hope and let that gift fill you up and strengthen you for the work God has given you.  Use that gift as fuel, and then let God’s holy meal fill your belly so that you are strengthened for the work ahead.  May God’s peace and joy fill you up and overflow out of you to others.  And then be agents of peace through the Prince of Peace who comforts you tonight.  Amen.

[i] David Lose, “Something More,” December 18, 2011 as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post=1612 on December 20, 2014.

Sermon – Isaiah 40.1-11, A2, YB, December 7, 2014

10 Wednesday Dec 2014

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This sermon was delivered on the occasion of our Annual Meeting. 

This time of year, I do a lot of preparing.  Though the setup takes a lot of work, I particularly love preparing our house for Christmas.  Unpacking and hanging all the ornaments is a tradition I shared with my family, and that I now can share with my girls.  I love telling my oldest daughter the stories behind certain ornaments and helping her decide where they should go.  I also put out our international crèche collection.  They remind me of travels I have made or friends from far away places.  Each inspires something different in me, reflecting the culture and artistry of different countries.  And of course, my daughter loves helping me hide away the baby Jesuses until Christmas day.  We even take down some artwork on our wall to make room for the cards which friends from far and wide send to us.  There is something homey and comforting about the whole process of preparing for Christmas, and I love the way that the preparation makes me feel grounded and joyful.

In our Old Testament lesson today, the text says, “prepare the way of the LORD.”  In this season of Advent, we are to prepare for the arrival of the Christ Child.  Now certainly, unpacking ornaments, advent wreaths, and crèches are one way to prepare.  But God is talking about a different kind of preparation today.  God is not talking about an outward change – like decorating our homes.  God is talking about an inward preparation – an inward change in anticipation of the LORD.  I am reminded of how one of our parishioners just recently prepared himself for the LORD.  Several weeks ago, one of our young parishioners decided to receive his first communion.  He prepared by reading about the Eucharist at home with his family, asking questions, and talking with them about their experiences.  He worked on memorizing the Lord’s Prayer, so that he might fully participate in the prayer life of our community.  And then he sat with me as we walked through the Eucharistic liturgy, talking about what each part means, why that part is significant, and what all those crazy things on the altar are called.  Finally, he chose someone to present him before the entire community, where he and we all declared that he was prepared to be in full communion with this community.  He waited and worked to prepare himself for the consumption of our LORD.  And now, each week that I have placed the body of Christ in his hand since then, I have felt a sweet, deeply abiding satisfaction when he reaches his hands toward me to receive Christ’s body.

The kind of preparation that our young parishioner did is a small taste of the kind of preparation God calls for in our Old Testament today.  Isaiah says that in order to prepare, we need to make straight in the desert a highway for our God, lift up every valley, make low every mountain and hill, level the uneven ground, and make plain the rough places.  This passage is so familiar to us, that many of us miss the magnitude of what God is saying.  When was the last time you tried to fill in a valley or level a mountain?  Of course, God is not telling us to literally take the winding roads of deserts and make them straight.  But in the metaphors, God is telling us that preparing for God is not easy work.  In fact, preparing for the LORD is a monumental task.  Preparing for the LORD is not like preparing our homes for Christmas, where we can make a basic checklist and slowly check the items off the list.  When given the hefty work of preparing ourselves inwardly for God, the task of leveling our valleys and mountains and smoothing out our rough places is much more difficult.

In some ways, I have watched St. Margaret’s do a lot of this interior work.  Over the course of the last year, our Vestry and Buildings and Grounds Committee have made level the mess that had become our Undercroft.  Though taking on an expensive project, they together worked to clean out harmful mold and mildew, solved a drainage problem to prevent that kind of damage again, and reimagined how that space could be utilized by us and our community.  Meanwhile, our educational offerings have been totally made low in this last year.  We revamped our Sunday School program after years of struggling to find the best way to raise our children in the faith.  We reworked our worship schedule so that adults could claim an hour in their busy lives to ponder their faith and make straight paths in the desert.  We have filled in the valleys by marching in parades, sponsoring baseball teams, eating pancakes at local diners, and inviting total strangers into our midst so that they might help us fill in those valleys.  Of course, anyone who knows St. Margaret’s also knows that you are only a stranger here for about one Sunday before our wonderfully welcoming community has made sure they know your whole life story before your coffee cup is empty.

All of those have been wonderfully positive things in our lives, but not easy work.  I cannot tell you the number of people who worried and fretted over our Undercroft expenses, complained about how long the work was taking, and questioned the wisdom of the work.  I cannot tell you the number of times I myself considered whether we should halt educational offerings altogether due to low turnout.  I cannot tell you how many times I needed each one of us to invite someone to church and instead heard someone say, “Oh, well isn’t that what our new website is for?”  We have been making progress toward straightening paths, filling in valleys, and leveling mountains.  But we have also gotten very dirty, been impatient and frustrated with each other, and sometimes have dropped our shovels altogether.  That is what happens when you do this kind of preparation for the LORD.  The work is not easy.  The work is monumental.  The work is, well, work.  And work is what God is inviting us into today.

The good news is that today’s text is one of those “both-and” texts.[i]  Yes, God is inviting us into some hard work today.  As we reflect on another year of service, at the mounds of dirt we have already moved, God is charging us to roll up our sleeves and keep digging.  And yes, God promises that the work of preparing will not be easy work.  But God also makes a promise while we are in the mire of making roads straight.  Our text today from Isaiah says, “He will feed his flock like a shepherd; he will gather the lambs in his arms, and carry them in his bosom, and gently lead the mother sheep.”  This last sentence has been lingering with me this week.  Maybe because I am a nursing mom, or maybe because this is the only time that scripture talks about the work of a mother sheep, but I find myself riveted by these words.

Just this week, I had one of “those” nights at our house.  I do not know whether she was teething or just had a rough day, but I lost count after the fifth time I woke up to my infant’s crying one night.  The next morning, I woke up bleary-eyed, almost falling asleep while eating my morning cereal, spilling my coffee on my computer, and generally having a rough time trying to focus.  That is the life of a mother with young children.  And I assume, the life of a mother sheep is not much easier – constantly using her body to protect and feed her lambs.  To that wearied mother sheep, God says that God will gently lead her.  In fact, not only that, God will gather up her lambs, embracing them in God’s bosom, and then God will gently lead the mother sheep.  I am reminded of the many times someone has scooped up my daughters when they were losing their cool.  I am reminded of the individuals who have forced me to go take a date night while they watched my kids.  I am reminded of the encouraging words and sympathetic nods I have received over these last five years.

That is the kind of care God promises us in the midst of our work.  God says, “Go out there and get dirty filling valleys, leveling mountains, and straitening roads.  And when you are weary from the work, I will scoop up your little ones, and gently lead you by my side.”  As I look forward to the coming year, I hear both a charge and a comfort for us today.  We all have more to learn, more people to serve, more spreading of the gospel to do.  But we also have a shepherd who tenderly encourages and comforts us – and then kicks us right back into the ring.  Thanks be to God!  Amen.

[i] George W. Stroup, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 28.

Sermon – Mark 13.24-37, A1, YB, November 30, 2014

03 Wednesday Dec 2014

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I live a very loud life these days.  If any of you have ever visited the Rectory between the hours of five and seven in the evening, you have witnessed the sheer volume of my life.  Between the baby who can only communicate frustration through crying and the kindergartner who is quite verbose nowadays, mixed in with the fatigue they both feel after a long day of school and nursery care, let’s just say these hours are full of a lot of noise.  That is not to say that all of the noise is unpleasant – there is also the noise of laughter, storytelling, and shaking rattles.  But our house in those hours is not the place where you would want set up a yoga mat and try to meditate.

I sometimes blame all the noise in my life on my beloved children.  But the truth is I am as much a cause of the noise as they are.  I am admittedly loud myself – whether barking instructions around the house, singing aloud, or simply talking my husband’s ear off.  But I am not just loud in the house – I am also loud inside my head.  My mind is in constant conversation:  my to-do list, searching for ideas for a blog post, worrying about a sick friend or parishioner, trying to make plans for the weekend, processing a troublesome conversation, or wallowing in guilt for missed exercise or time in prayer.  As loud as my outside world is, my inside world is probably much worse.  Add Christmastime to the mix, and the loudness of my life reaches levels that can be incapacitating.

That is why I love Advent so much.  In the lead-up to Christmas, the outside world bombards us with noise:   Christmas songs on the radio, shopping to complete, parties to attend, gifts to wrap, houses to decorate, gatherings to host, cards to send, and loud relatives or friends to entertain.  In contrast, the Church at this time asks us to do the exact opposite:  slow down, take a breath, light some candles, breath in the fresh greenery, sing quiet, meditative songs, and worship in the soothing purple of anticipation.  When the outside world is telling us, “Do more, buy more, run more, fuss more, stress more,” the Church says, “Do less, worry less, run less, talk less, be busy less.”  The contrast between the two worlds is like night and day, and at a time of high stress, Advent becomes the Church’s greatest gift to us.

Into this contrast, we hear words from Mark’s gospel today.  The text says, “Beware, keep alert; for you do not know when the time will come.  It is like a man going on a journey, when he leaves home and puts his slaves in charge, each with his work, and commands the doorkeeper to be on the watch.  Therefore, keep awake– for you do not know when the master of the house will come, in the evening, or at midnight, or at cockcrow, or at dawn, or else he may find you asleep when he comes suddenly.  And what I say to you I say to all: Keep awake.”  Many of us hear this text today with a sense of anxiety – of needing to keep anxious watch for the Lord.  We might imagine the many apocalyptic movies, predictions, and preachers we have witnessed over the years and wonder whether Jesus really does want us to be more alarmed.  Certainly the outside world would have us also be alert and anxious for the coming Christmas.

But I think the Church is saying something else today.  Instead of an anxious alarm, our gospel lesson sounds like a gentle reminder to me.  Keep awake, for you do not want to miss the quiet beauty of Advent.  Keep awake, for you do not want to miss the gift of time set apart in these four weeks.  Keep awake, for you do not want to miss the lead in to the manger, the dramatic retelling of why the manger is so important, and the grounding for this entire season.[i]  Jesus’ words for us to “keep awake,” are not meant to be one more anxiety to pile on top of a mound of concerns.  Jesus’ words for us to “keep awake,” are meant to help us focus on what is really important.

So make a commitment to come to church each Sunday in Advent and spend those Sundays in quiet worship with your church family.  Grab an Advent calendar or devotional to help you more intentionally mark the days leading up to the manger.  Or set up that Advent wreath at home, so that you might bring the quiet candlelight of prayer and meditation to your home.  Whatever the discipline, choose something this Advent that will help you maintain the quiet peace you find here at Church and carry that quiet peace throughout your weeks leading up to Christmas.  My guess is that noise of life will slowly fade into a quiet hum in the background – which is right where it should be.  Amen.

[i] Lillian Daniel, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 22.

Sermon – Matthew 25.31-46, P29, YA, November 23, 2014

26 Wednesday Nov 2014

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Once upon a time, “there was a cobbler who lived alone in his shop with one window that looked out on the street.  His wife and children had all died and he asked God, “Holy One why have you so long delayed your coming?  I have almost given up hope in seeing you.  Please come to my humble shop this day and show me your face.”

Outside on the street the cold winter brought snow.  Through his window he saw a beggar who shivered in the cold.  The cobbler invited the beggar into the shop to warm him and offer a meager meal from his shrinking larder.  The beggar thanked him and left.

As the day passed, a few customers came with repairs they needed for their shoes and harnesses.  A young boy sought shelter from the cold and snow.  The child’s feet were wrapped in old dirty rags and stuffed with paper.  Into the shop he invited the boy.  After making him some warm milk and a sandwich from the little food he had he went to his closet and found a pair of shoes that [had] belonged to his son.  He fit the shoes to the boy.  Grateful, the boy left with a promise to return to visit him.

It was approaching dusk and the cobbler despaired of a visit from the Lord.  A woman with her young babe appeared in front of the window.  She was dressed in a thin piece of cloth and she looked as if she might freeze to death.  The cobbler invited her into his shop.  Wary of the old man, she hesitated at the door, but feeling the warmth within she stepped across the threshold.  The cobbler made her some tea and went to his closet to find a heavy woolen cloak that [had] belonged to his wife.  Giving her the cloak the woman thanked him and after he shared the rest of his larder with her, she left with the child.

The sun descended and left the cobbler bereft.  “Why didn’t you come and visit me today,” the cobbler asked?  There was a voice that spoke to him in his humble shop:  “But I did come to you.  When you invited in the beggar, the boy, and the mother and her child, I was there with you.  In each of their faces you looked into my eyes.”  [The cobbler] then remembered the scripture: “When did you see me hungry and feed me, alone and naked and clothe me and thirsty and you gave me a drink.”  The visitors who had come to his shop that day had been his master.  In their faces he had looked into the eyes of God.

That night the cobbler slept happy and at peace for the first time in many months.”[i]

Today’s gospel lesson is one of those lessons that we might hear and immediately panic, for fear that we are those goats at God’s left hand.  We can picture all of those homeless persons we passed without a nod or a coin; that nursing home that we go by everyday but fail to stop in for a visit; or that prison that we avoid because passing the prison makes us nervous enough – we cannot imagine actually going inside.  In fact, we are pretty sure that we are the goats of Jesus’ story, and we know that when those goats do not feed the hungry, clothe the naked, welcome the stranger, tend the sick, and visit the prison, they are sent away to eternal punishment.  Talk about a sobering text.

Truthfully, we probably all could use a little sobering from time to time.  But today, I am more intrigued by the ways in which we are sheep.  In fact, St. Margaret’s gives us all kinds of opportunities to be sheep:  when we plant, tend, and pick produce that feeds the hungry in Huntington Station and Hicksville; when we donate money to the Outreach Fund, which provides clothing, gas, food, and toiletries to needy students at JFK High School here in Plainview; when we take communion to the shut-ins, or simply stop by for a visit or drop off a container of soup; or when we clear out our closets for veterans we may never meet.  All of these ways are ways in which St. Margaret’s is seeking and serving Christ in our neighborhood, and inviting us to fully become sheep at God’s right hand.

But as proud as I am of each of us, and as much as I want to assure us that we fall into the sheep category as often as we fall into the goat category[ii], the more important point is that Jesus’ words today are not meant to make us worry about completing a check list that will get us into heaven someday.  Instead, Jesus’ words today are meant to be a different kind of wake up call.  Jesus is saying today [clap], “Hey!  I am right here.  Wake up!”  Jesus does not want you to do all those wonderful things because that is what will get you into heaven.  Jesus wants you to do those wonderful things because that is where we will see his face and he will see ours.  Only when we are in those places of vulnerability, messiness, and desperation will we find each other.

I do not mean to romanticize poverty or helping the less fortunate.  But here is what I do know:  for the person who is in need, asking for help is one of the most humiliating experiences a person can know.  Asking for help means swallowing one’s pride, admitting defeat, and opening up oneself to rejection.  And for the person who is giving aid, giving that help means talking to someone we usually try to ignore, acknowledging our own privilege, and seeing afresh how thin the line is between “us” and “them.”  In that narrow space is where we can hear God say, “But I did come to you.  When you invited in the beggar, the boy, and the mother and her child, I was there with you.  In each of their faces you looked into my eyes.”  That is the invitation of today’s gospel lesson: not to panic in fear, but to step into those narrow spaces where Christ resides, and to see Christ face to face.  Amen.

[i] Leo Tolstoy, “Martin the Cobbler,” as retold by Bob Stuhlmann in “Goat Cheese And Starfish: For November 23, 2014,” posted on November 18, 2014, as found at http://storiesfromapriestlylife.wordpress.com/2014/11/18/goat-cheese-and-starfish-for-november-232014/.

[ii] Mark Douglas, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year A, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 336.

Sermon – Matthew 25.1-13, P27, YA, November 9, 2014

12 Wednesday Nov 2014

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I am fortunate in that I do not have a long commute to work.  But there have been a few times when I have needed to take the Long Island Railroad during morning rush hour.  What I found fascinating about those trips is how people use their time on the train.  Most people are on their phones, probably doing any number of things:  scanning email, sending a few quick texts, checking Facebook, reading the news.  Some people are reading the paper:  catching up on the headlines, reading the sports page, or checking the financial reports.  Others use their hour on the train to catch up on sleep.  That one always scares me – how people sleep lightly enough not to miss their stop is beyond me.  And I suppose there are a few people like me, who enjoy the people watching.  But those are rarely the morning regulars – they got over that fascination a long time ago and chose some other way to spend their time.

We make choices every day:  how we spend our money, what we will do with free evenings, what groups we want to be involved in, and with whom we want to spend our time.  What we do while commuting is just one example of the myriad choices available to us on a given day.  But over time, those choices begin to shape who we are.  Those choices begin to define whether we are an avid reader, someone who is connected to the goings-on of the world, someone who is physically fit, or someone who is known for their volunteer work.  What seem like inconsequential decisions, like regularly watching a TV show, a standing appointment with a friend for dinner, or joining a civic group, slowly begin to shape a life.  Those little choices we make day in and day out shape who we are and what our life is really about.  In my line of work, I go to a lot of funerals, and that is one of the consistent things I see:  the choices a person makes over time informs who they are.  So in a eulogy, someone is described a devoted mother, or an avid sailor, or an advocate for the poor.

Our gospel lesson today is all about how our choices matter.[i]  The most obvious choice we see is the choice by the foolish bridesmaids not to bring extra oil.  Actually, the foolish bridesmaids make two choices.  First, they choose not to bring extra oil, perhaps assuming the groom will not be long.  Second, once they realize they are out of oil and the others are not going to share, they choose to go buy more.  Neither of their choices is illogical really.  Based on the customs of the time, the maids should not have needed extra oil.[ii]  Their choice not to bring extra oil is a perhaps presumptuous, but not scandalous.  The second choice is reactionary.  The wise bridesmaids tell them to go and they do – in the middle of the night, the foolish maids make an impetuous decision that ends up costing them greatly.  The foolish maids’ choices create a world fraught with risk – where split-second decisions leave the maids with little footing in a world that is constantly throwing choices at them

But the foolish bridesmaids are not the only ones making choices in our parable today.  The wise ones make choices too.  When faced with the needs of the oil-less bridesmaids, the wise bridesmaids send the foolish ones away to get their own oil.  They do not consider sharing their oil or allowing the foolish ones to stand with them.  Quite frankly, they should not have to share.  They have thoughtfully constructed a world in which careful planning and preparation pay off in great rewards.  Their choices have lead to a world in which everyone fends for themselves, where pity is not necessary, and boundaries are clear and concise.

And of course, the bridegroom makes a choice too.  When the foolish bridesmaids knock at the door, the groom has a choice:  he can justifiably send them away since they were not considerate enough to be ready and waiting for him; or he can be forgiving and graciously allow them into the celebration.  The choice of the groom to close the door leads to a world in which mistakes are severely punished and there are no second chances.

This parable is one of those parables that does not leave us feeling good about the world.  In fact, the choices of the characters in the parable depict a world that is marked by rigidity, scarcity, and lacking in forgiveness.  We know this world all too well.  All we have to do is listen to the current debate in the United States about immigration.  Whenever we debate the issue of what to do with illegal immigrants, the arguments are similarly marked by rigidity, scarcity, and a lack of forgiveness.  We worry about the drain on our resources with illegal immigrants – the health care, education, and social services needed for them.  We worry about the jobs they will be taking from legal citizens.  And we worry about our capacity for compassion – I have heard many argue that we cannot save every child in the world by welcoming them here.  All of those fears are valid.  And so we draw boundaries, we put up limits, and we say no.  We make choices that shape our experience as Americans.  And like the bridesmaids with extra oil, our decisions could probably be labeled as wise.

Although that wisdom is usually praiseworthy, and is clearly praised in our lesson today, for some reason, that wisdom does not sit well with me this week.  Instead, I have found myself wondering what other choices the three characters in this story could have made. [iii]  The foolish bridesmaids could have simply chosen to stay.  Sure, they would have had to risk being in the dark for a while, and leaning into the light of others.  They may even have had to plead their case with the groom once he arrived.  But at least they would have been there.  They could have stayed.  Staying would have been scary and made them vulnerable.  But they could have chosen to stay.  Meanwhile, the wise bridesmaids could have chosen to either share their oil, or stand side-by-side with the foolish ones, letting their light shine the way for both of them.  Sure, they were within their right to refuse.  They are the ones who thought ahead and did the right thing.  But they could have chosen another way.  They could have chosen to share their abundance with the foolish.  The bridegroom had a choice too.  The groom had every right to refuse entry to the foolish maids – based on what he knew, they were late and unprepared.  He had no obligation to let in people to his celebration who do not care enough about him to be prepared to wait for him.  But the groom could have chosen to let them in anyway.  He could have chosen gracious hospitality, even to the undeserving maids.

I recently had a conversation with another parent about creating healthy eating habits for children.  She was explaining to me a philosophy in which parents let children guide their own eating choices.  So instead of serving children the healthy food first and then bringing out the dessert, the parent is to put everything out on the table and allow the child to serve themselves.  The argument is that through experience, the child will eventually learn that loading up a plate with dessert leaves the child unsatisfied, if not sick.  Over time, the child will learn what foods make her feel good, what portions she needs to feel full, and how to plan her plate accordingly.  Truthfully the idea sounded crazy to me – like some hippy, permissive parenting that would lead to malnourished, unruly children and wasted healthy food.  But then again, I tend to choose a world guided by structure and order imposed from an authority.  This parent was suggesting a different kind of world guided by trust, that makes room for growth through mistakes, and that leads by example.

That is the funny thing about choices.  Our choices shape our world.  Most people read today’s gospel and think:  Okay, the moral of the story is to choose preparedness and alertness and when Jesus returns, we will be ready.  But instead, the moral of this story might be that the choices that we make shape our world – and our choices may not be as obvious as we think.  So yes, we can choose to live lives with strict boundaries and rules, lives that are guarded and have limits, and lives that are grounded in consequences.  We can also choose to live lives that are grounded in forgiveness, that make room for mistakes, and that make us uncomfortable, but also make room for joy.  Sometimes those choices will be obvious: when we actively decide to forgive someone who has wronged us or when we purposefully decide to share our resources even though the other does not deserve our generosity.  But sometimes the choices will not be so obvious:  when we commit to a new ministry, even if we are not sure where that ministry will take us or what that ministry will demand of us; when we choose to give up some of our disposable income to support the work of this church, even if we are not sure we can spare the money; or when we give up some of our family’s outside commitments so that we can be more present in the life and work of the church.  Those choices demand sacrifice, vulnerability, and work.  But those choices might also be the choices that make someone say at our funeral, “He loved the Lord, he loved the church, and he boldly lived a life of trust and abundance.  And look where his life led.”  Amen.

[i] Anthony B. Robinson, “Choices that Matter,” Christian Century, vol. 110, no. 29, October 20, 1993, 1011.

[ii] John M. Buchanan, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year A, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 286.

[iii] David R. Henson, “The Breaking of the Bridesmaids: Rethinking a Problematic Parable” as found at http://www.patheos.com/blogs/davidhenson/2014/11/the-breaking-of-the-bridesmaids-how-scripture-undermines-a-parable/ as posted on November 3, 2014.